This, I knew, was Dr. Shakeshafte, the Head. My father spoke of him with respect and some awe—after all, he had given him his job. One of the old school, my father would say with approvaclass="underline" tough but fair. Let’s hope the new man’s half as good.
Officially, of course, I knew nothing of the events that had led to the New Head’s appointment. My father could be oddly puritanical about some things, and I suppose he felt it was disloyal to St. Oswald’s to discuss the matter with me. Already, however, some of the local papers had caught the scent, and I had heard the rest from overheard remarks between my father and Pepsi: to avoid adverse publicity, the Old Head was to remain until the end of term—ostensibly to induct the new man and to help him settle in—after which he would leave on a comfortable pension provided by the trust. St. Oswald’s looks after its own: and there would be a generous out-of-court settlement for the injured parties—on the understanding, of course, that no mention was made of the circumstances.
As a result, I observed Dr. Shakeshafte with some curiosity from my position at the school gates. A craggy-faced man of about sixty, not as bulky as Bishop, but with the same ex-rugbyman’s build, he loomed over the boys like a gargoyle. A cane evangelist, I gathered from my father—good thing too, teach these boys some discipline. At my own school, the cane had already been outlawed for years. Instead, such people as Miss Potts and Miss McAuleigh favored the empathic approach, whereby bullies and thugs were invited to discuss their feelings before being let off with a caution.
Mr. Bray, himself a veteran bully, preferred the direct approach, so like my father’s, in which the complainant was advised to stop whingeing to me and fight your own battles, for Christ’s sake. I pondered the exact nature of the battle that had resulted in the Head’s involuntary retirement and wondered how it had been fought. I was still wondering when, ten minutes later, Leon arrived.
“Hey, Pinchbeck.” He was carrying his blazer over one shoulder, and his shirt was hanging out. The scissored tie poked impudently from his collar like a tongue. “What’re you doing?”
I swallowed, trying to look casual. “Nothing much. How did it go with Quaz?”
“Pactum factum,” said Leon, grinning. “DT on Friday, as predicted.”
“Bad luck.” I shook my head. “So what did you do?”
He made a dismissive gesture. “Ah, nothing,” he said. “Bit of basic self-expression on my desk lid. Want to go into town?”
I made a quick mental calculation. I could afford to be an hour late; my father had his rounds to do—doors to lock, keys to collect—and would not be home before five. Pepsi, if she was there at all, would be watching TV, or maybe cooking dinner. She had long since stopped trying to befriend me; I was free.
Try to imagine that hour, if you can. Leon had some money, and we had coffee and doughnuts in the little tea shop by the railway station, then we went around the record shops, where Leon dismissed my musical tastes as “banal” and expressed a preference in such bands as the Stranglers and the Squeeze. I had a bad moment when we passed a group of girls from my own school, and a worse one when Mr. Bray’s white Capri stopped at some lights as we were crossing the road, but I soon realized that in my St. Oswald’s uniform, I might as well really have been invisible.
For a few seconds Mr. Bray and I were close enough to touch. I wondered what would happen if I tapped at the window and said, “You are a complete and utter podex, sir.”
The thought made me laugh so much and so suddenly that I could hardly breathe.
“Who’s that?” said Leon, noticing me noticing.
“No one,” I said hastily. “Some bloke.”
“The girl, you prat.”
“Oh.” She was sitting in the passenger seat, turned slightly toward him. I recognized her: Tracey Delacey, a couple of years older than I was, the current fourth-form pinup. She was wearing a tennis skirt and sat with her legs crossed very high.
“Banal,” I said, using Leon’s word.
“I’d give her one,” said Leon, grinning.
“You would?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
I thought of Tracey, with her teased hair and lingering smell of Juicy Fruit gum. “Uh. Maybe,” I said, without enthusiasm.
Leon grinned as the little car pulled away.
My new friend was in Amadeus House. His parents—a university P.A. and a civil servant—were divorced (“but that’s okay, I get double the pocket money”). He had a younger sister, Charlotte; a dog called Captain Sensible; a personal therapist; an electric guitar; and, it seemed to me, limitless freedom.
“Mum says I need to experience learning beyond the confines of the patriarchal Judaeo-Christian system. She doesn’t really approve of St. Oz—but Dad’s the one who foots the bill. He was at Eton. Thinks day-schoolers are proles.”
“Right.” I tried to think of something honest to say about my own parents, but could not; in less than an hour’s acquaintance I already sensed that this boy held more of a place in my heart than John or Sharon Snyde ever had.
Ruthlessly, then, I reinvented them. My mother was dead; my father was a police inspector (the most important-sounding job I could think of at the time). I lived with my father for part of the year, and for the rest of the time with my uncle in town. “I had to come to St. Oswald’s midterm,” I explained. “I’ve not been here long.”
Leon nodded. “That right? I thought you might be a newbie. What happened with the other place? D’you get expelled?”
The suggestion rather pleased me. “It was a dump. My dad pulled me out.”
“I got thrown out of my last school,” said Leon. “Dad was livid. Three grand a year, they were getting, and they chucked me out on a first offense. Talk about banal. You’d think they’d make more of an effort, wouldn’t you? Anyway, we could do worse than St. Oz. Specially now Shakeshafte’s leaving, the old bugger—”
I saw my chance. “Why’s he going, anyhow?”
Leon’s eyes widened humorously. “You really are a newbie, aren’t you?” He lowered his voice. “Let me put it this way; I heard he was doing a bit more than just shaking his shaft . . .”
Things have changed since then, even at St. Oswald’s. In those days you could throw money at a scandal and it would go away. All that’s changed now. We are no longer overawed by the burnished spires: we can see the corruption beneath the shine. And it is fragile; a well-placed stone might bring it down. A stone, or something else.
I can identify with a boy like Knight. Small, lank, inarticulate, an obvious outsider. Shunned by his classmates, not for any question of religion, but for a more basic reason. It isn’t anything he can alter; it’s in the contours of his face, the no-color of his limp hair, the length of his bones. His family may have money now, but generations of poverty lie bone deep in him. I know. St. Oswald’s accepts his kind with reluctance in a time of financial crisis, but a boy like Knight will never fit in. His name will never appear on the Honor Boards. Masters will persistently forget his name. He will never be chosen for teams. His attempts to gain acceptance will always end in disaster. There is a look in his eyes that I recognize too well; the wary, resentful look of a boy who has long since stopped trying for acceptance. All he can do is hate.
Of course I heard about the scene with Straitley almost at once. The St. Oswald’s grapevine runs fast; any incident is reported within the day. Today had been a particularly bad one for Colin Knight. At registration, the spat with Straitley; at break, an incident with Robbie Roach over missing homework; at lunchtime, a flare-up with Jackson—also of 3S—which resulted in Jackson being sent home with a broken nose and Knight suspended for the week.